Have you ever been alone in a crowded room
by RustedDreams
Summary: spoilers for 4X11 He can't distinguish between the last time, almost four years ago now, and this time, not even four minutes ago. The words are the same and the outcome's the same, and again, no one is here to protect him. How does it happen to someone twice? In which Sadie Hawkins happens, history repeats itself and Blaine cries an awful lot.
1. Chapter 1

**Media: **Fic  
**Title: **Have you ever been alone in a crowded room  
**Rating**: R  
**Warnings for this chapter: **Self harm  
**Warnings for whole story:** Self harm, bullying, homophobia, assault, poor Blainey gets beaten up pretty bad  
**Spoilers:** 4X11  
**Word Count**: 1798  
**Summary**: He can't distinguish between the last time, almost four years ago now, and this time, not even four minutes ago. The words are the same and the outcome's the same, and again, no one is here to protect him. _How does it happen to someone twice? _**In which Sadie Hawkins happens, history repeats itself and Blaine cries an awful lot.**  
**Author's note: **Title from the song Dark Blue by Jack's mannequin.

He hasn't done it in a long time, an awfully long time. It's almost a lifetime away now, for he had promised himself he would spend a lifetime with Kurt. But it was back before the boy and the blazer and everything he has come to feel protected by. It was a dark time, a lonely time, filled with empty nights and shattered lives and the pain.

The pain he still craves.

He stands in the bathroom, door locked even though his parents are out, the overhead light is too bright, but it shows his veins and it shows his skin and that's all he needs. He replays the day's events, an announcement and those three words he has come to associate with fear and pain and this: the bathroom and the blade and the broken little boy. Experience has taught him that he can throw out every blade in the house, his parents can lock away the knives and his brother can beg him not to, but he will still find a way. Today it had come in the form of a pencil sharpener and a screw driver and some rubbing alcohol.

Shards of his day flash through his mind, easy to see in this glaring light. The way his chest had grasped and lungs had stopped and panic had overridden every sense in his body before the sentence was even finished. Three words.

Sadie.

Hawkins.

Dance.

And he had been reduced to a mouse under a plough, an ant under a boot, a boy beneath a fist. He remembers running off to cry in the bathroom, trying to even his breathing at his locker as the rest of the school buzzed with excitement, and lying to Sam as the boy winced with worry. He remembers the clawing, gasping sensation as his lungs filled with useless air, as his eyes blacked out and his heart pounded and he could feel every organ in his body straining to work. He remembers the panic and the blind fear and the wracking tears as his body convulsed with the need to breathe and his fingernails clawed with the need to feel.

And now this, the thing he has been thinking about all day long. He takes a deep breath, removes his cardigan completely, and presents his left arm for punishment. The blade is gripped in his right hand. It's smaller than the ones he used to use, the ones he removed from his razor, the ones Cooper had found dripping with blood. He remembers the screaming and the fighting and the clawing with his fingernails when he had nothing else to use. He remembers being too numb to care that his father was still disappointed with him and his mother was crying more than ever and his brother, well his brother was almost as broken as he is. He remembers the trips to the therapist and the conversations his parents had when they thought he couldn't hear and he remembers buying another razor in secret, hiding the blades in the tissue box next to his bed and cutting his thighs and his chest when people started checking his wrists. He remembers standing naked in front of the mirror, his body painted with scratches, some red raw and others fading brown, his whole body spotted with blood and pain and that itching that comes a few days afterwards.

And he knows it's wrong, but he wants it again.

Just for now, just today he tells himself. Because it's been a hard day and everyone says that he has to go to the dance, he's senior class president after all, and it's just brought back some feelings. It's nothing much- that sinking feeling in his chest, that cataclysmic opening and then the slow freefalling, sinking down down down somewhere deep inside himself, somewhere dark and burning and terrifying. It's just brought back that aching in his chest, the clawing in his heart, that itching of his skin to be cut. It's not going to be a problem, not like last time. He is Blaine Anderson, he is confident and composed and he can stop whenever he wants. He just doesn't want to.

He makes the first cut.

It hurts a little more than he remembers, but it's a good hurt, it's a pain he's in control of, and it distracts him from the other pain, the one that scares him as it builds in his chest and works its way out of his throat and his eyes and his pores. It doesn't bleed straight away, it barely leaves a mark, so he does it again. And again. In the same place, he does it over and over until suddenly a violent pool of red is swelling along the cut, he can see the opening in his arm and he feels the burn and he smiles. He cuts again, moving further up his arm, he rips at the flesh and then waits a few seconds in nervous anticipation until the blood appears. It's a nice contrast against the white of skin, everyone keeps saying how pale he is. Snow white and Rose red. He keeps cutting, he doesn't keep count, just lets himself get lost in the skilful swing of his hand, the monotonous sear of pain and the steady flow of blood.

He remembers being a fourteen year old boy, despising himself and his family and the world around him. It had started out as a punishment, he deserved it, he deserved the constant pain and the ugly scars and the tears he had shed every night. And then something had changed, he had craved the drag of a knife over skin, the way a blade can catch for a second before it glides across your body and the way they sting every night when you try to sleep. He had pressed his fingers against the scars during lessons, smiling slyly to himself, and he'd started to cut where he knew he'd feel it, the inside of his thighs where his jeans rubbed against them as he walked and his hip bones where a belt could easily press too hard. He remembers getting lost in it, using it as a life line. He remembers clinging with broken fingers to something that was never going to save him.

Eventually he had got better, everything had faded into the belligerent grey scars that Kurt pretended not to see every time they had sex, he had only asked about them once and Blaine had cried and they'd pretended it had never happened after that. The itch to hurt himself, to maim himself, had gone away with his feelings of worthlessness and his constant attempts to impress his father. He had become warbler Blaine, mentor Blaine, boyfriend Blaine.

Now he's back to being plain old Blaine.

The blade had been his friend, it had supported him through the darkest time in his life and it had been there for him when no one else was. It's good to be reunited. Because once again he is alone, nobody cares and nobody's here and all he has to rely on is this shiny little blade. A friend that won't ever leave him.

He doesn't blame Kurt, he doesn't blame Cooper or Sam or any of the warblers. He blames himself, and that's why this is such a good idea, because this doesn't hurt anyone but himself. He's tired of hurting people.

So he cuts and he scars and he enjoys his punishment because it makes him forget, it makes him forget what he is and who he is and how he's never good enough for anyone. He submerges himself in the pain and for a few minutes he forgets.

And it's wonderful.

And then he stops, he washes the blood away and hides his blade-just in case- and he dabs at his freshly opened arm with some more of the rubbing alcohol because he loves the burn and the sting as it gets in his wounds, he loves the hiss of breath between gritted teethed and the shock of finger nails in palms when he clenches his fist too tight. And he loves the pain.

He tiptoes to his bedroom, pulling on pyjamas that are too small and that drag across the puffy red scratches. He presses his fingers and feels a new wave of blood that he doesn't bother to clean. He presses harder and tries not to cry out in pain. He bites his tongue and his cheek and he collapses onto his bed like a corpse in water, feeling less alive than he's ever felt before.

He cries.

Hot and heavy and a betrayal coming from his own body, a traitor in his midst. He scratches across the scars and he claws at his eyes and he wishes that someone were here.

Kurt, who would hold him and kiss him and always knew how to make him better, except he's destroyed everything he has with Kurt, he's ripped down the walls of their palace and he's set fire to their universe and he's ripped that boy to shreds.

Cooper, who would make him laugh and would hold him tight and who would order take out, but Cooper isn't here, because Cooper has better things to worry about than silly little boys who are afraid of school dances.

His mother, who would make hot chocolate and stroke his hair and fetch him a blanket, except she'd cry and try to send him back to Dalton and would take him back to the doctor.

His father, who would tell him he was weak, that Andersons don't cry and that only girls cut themselves and that he's never been good at anything. It would still be better than being alone.

Blaine's tired, he's tired of fighting and he's tired of hoping and he's tired of swimming against this relentless torrent of pain, wave after wave of hurting the ones you love and drowning everything you have and still waking up gasping on the beach. He's tired of being useless and he's tired of caring too much and he's tired of working for the world around him. He's an empty jar, he's a trend that's gone out of fashion, a toy who's child has grown up and a light that's been switched on in the daylight. And he's beginning to think, that maybe he'd quite like to be switched off now.

So he lies and he sleeps and he ignores the stinging of the scars against his skin and the weight of the world against his shoulders, and he thinks that maybe this isn't such a bad arrangement after all. Maybe this is the key to surviving the dance and the school and the rest of his life.

Maybe.


	2. Chapter 2

He agrees to go to the dance with Tina, because she's nice and surprisingly funny and they're both a little too hung up on their ex-boyfriends to go with anyone else. It's a friendly thing. He arrives at her door, concealed behind a suit and smile, and tells her she looks lovely. He shakes her parents' hands and he smiles for photos and then he leads her to the car where they drive to the sound of the radio. He pretends he isn't on the verge of a panic attack. He grips the wheel and he shakes his head and he smiles every so often at Tina, she really does look gorgeous.

'You know if you want to leave early we can. If you feel uncomfortable we can just come back to mine and watch shitty horror movies instead.' Tina smiles, reaching out to take Blaine's hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.

'Thank you, I'm sure I'll be fine.' He lies.

They pull up to the school and walk towards the front doors arm in arm. Blaine can hear his jagged breathing over the sound of chatter and car engines. His heart pounds and fear flashes through his eyes as he relives buried memories. Tina is talking but he can't hear her, can't hear anything now but shuddering breaths and rampaging blood and heavy footsteps on too hard concrete.

They get inside and there's that awkward moment where neither of them know what to do, do they dance together? Do they dance separately? Do they get drinks? Do they find their other friends? But then Blaine, ever the gentleman, holds out his hand and asks her to dance, she laughs and tells him that if he carries on she'll have a crush on him by the end of the night, truth be told she already does a little, but who couldn't with those gorgeous eyes and that sincere voice and the damn charm that never seems to be switched off.

They dance and Tina talks and Blaine listens, really listens, because he likes listening to people, whether they talk about their problems or their interests or anything, he likes to be there for them and he likes the way sometimes they get so caught up in what they're saying they forget he's there and then they blush and he smiles and he thinks that maybe he's helped them a little bit. And it's nice, Tina has a pretty voice and an extensive vocabulary and Blaine wonders why they weren't friends all along, it's distracting and it's easy and he forgets the way his chest is just a little tighter, his hands are shaking just a little more and his throat is closing up each second.

He sings back up for a while, swaying behind Sam and Artie and Jake and Ryder. When they ask if he wants to take lead he knows his voice will betray him so he shakes his head and continues to watch from the background. Tina waves at him from where she's dancing with Sugar and Brittany. Everything is okay. Everything is good.

Until it isn't.

Until Tina goes to redo her make up with the girls and Sam continues to sing and he's left alone and terrified in the middle of the dance floor with that suffocating feeling creeping up on him. He gulps down dry air that seems to get lost on the way to his lungs. He pulls at his tie, desperately trying to release his throat from this constricting hold, he claws at his neck and he buries his face in his hands and he runs.

Before he even knows what he's doing he's out into the harsh night air, _when did it become night? _Still he gasps for breath, limbs trembling and mind screaming _breathe, just fucking breathe. _It shouldn't be this hard.

He lowers himself to the ground, it's wet but he doesn't care, he just curls up, shrinking smaller smaller smaller, recoiling against the wind and his thoughts as still he grasps for the release of this chokehold, for his body to just function the way it's meant to and for air to reach his bloody lungs. He's panicking now, thrashing against the tides, straining for life, he rips at his hair and his skin, he gasps but still nothing comes, fuck he doesn't want this.

His vision is getting darker, blurred, as if he's a camera lens going out of focus. he can't breathe. He tears at his hair and pulls at his skin. He presses his fingers into his scars, feeling the pain, trying to focus on the pain instead of the ache in his chest, the burning for oxygen. He presses so hard it bleeds, and still it's not enough.

He screams but nothing comes out, tears of frustration and panic well in his eyes and he tries to rub them away with his palms _don't cry, fuck it Blaine don't cry. _Blood runs down his arms, he hadn't been strong enough to stop, he'd failed. _breathe please just breathe. _His vision is getting smaller and smaller, his panic levels are getting higher and higher. He grabs fistfuls of hair and tugs, hoping for some kind of cry of pain or inhale of breath.

Nothing comes.

He curls up smaller, wet and bleeding and crying and cold and so terrified he can barely move.

And that's when they strike.

'Well well well, what do we have here?' _No, please no, please dear god no._

'Hey little gay boy.' _leave please leave._

'What are you doing out here all alone?' _No no no no no no no no no no._

'Answer him faggot.' the first kick comes without warning, brutal and sudden, aimed at the ribs, just under his scar from the last time he was kicked there.

'None of your jock friends here to save you now.' _they're not really my friends, they just pretend to be._

Another kick, his hip this time, he lurches forwards until he's face down on the pavement, blood in his mouth and dirt on his cheeks and hands too far away to protect his head.

'He's not even putting up a fight!' _What's the point?_

They're on him now, all around him, in his hair and his ears, pinching at his skin and throwing him between them like some sick game of piggy in the middle. Punch, kick, throw, punch, kick, throw, punch, kick, throw. Pain explodes like supernovas in a rhythmic battle, knee, thigh, rib, hip, stomach, repeat repeat repeat. He screams. At least now he's breathing. Broken and begging _stop god stop please stop. _His arms already burn from reopened scars, his ribs already ache from revisited bruises. His bones break or sprain or scream.

He receives a particularly hard kick to the knee _stop please stop _and he's down, arms out in front of him before giving away with a sickening crunch as his teeth come into contact with the floor. Fire rampages through his wrist and he screams again, oxygen flooding his lungs, too much too soon, tainted with the taste of blood and the texture of dirt.

And then he's on his back, arms up in a useless defence in front of his face as smack after smack litters his cheeks and his jaw and his eye socket.

'You can try and act straight, bring that girl to the dance, but we know, we all know.' _stop god stop. _punch hit smack.

He cowers body convulsing as he can barely move under the weight of two bodies above him, the air is crushed once more from his lungs and his already broken wrist is twisted painfully above his head, leaving his face free for marking. He cries out again, a painful mix between a whine and a shriek and receives a fist to the mouth for his efforts. Somewhere else someone is still kicking him, hit after hit rains over his legs and his torso while all he can do is plead and buck beneath the bodies holding him down. He's crying, screaming, pleading, broken words jumbling together in a mantra of _stopstopstopstopstopstopstop . _Still it continues, his arms are held above his head, his cuts bleeding and his bones useless, he can't fight them off, can't even try. _I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry. _He's useless, completely and utterly useless.

And then he's alone. Only he doesn't feel alone, because he can still see them and hear them and fuck, he can still feel them, an intruding presence, infecting his mind, spreading through his skin and contaminating his body with the constant burn and ache. Fire grips all around him, too much to focus on one thing, the stinging of tears in blood shot eyes, salty and burning as they fall into his split lip and his cut cheek and it's like getting salt in a wound. His body groans, too exhausted and too pained to sit up, so he just cowers in the rain, feels his warm blood mix with the cold ground in an sticky lukewarm mixture that only seems to pull him further into the concrete. HIs wrist is definitely broken, cradled uselessly above ribs that are bruised at the very least. He can't even tell what hurts, his whole body is in such constricting torture. It hurts to breathe, his throat is raw from screaming and his chest is too heavy and too tight, oxygen crackling as it fights it's way to his abused lungs. He coughs, holding in a cry of pain as his back arches off the ground in agony, and he tastes blood. He spits it on the floor next to him and feels where one of his teeth has been knocked loose. He whimpers. Everything hurts. Images flash though his mind, pictures and words and the sickening sound of fist on flesh, flesh on floor. He can't distinguish between the last time, almost four years ago now, and this time, not even four minutes ago. The words are the same and the outcome's the same, and again, no one is here to protect him. _How does it happen to someone twice?_

He doesn't know how long it is until Tina comes to look for him, he's barely conscious when she lets out of a broken scream and he almost passes out when she grabs his broken wrist in an attempt to comfort him. Hot white pain spreads through his entire arm, his vision blacks out for a few seconds, and he screams brokenly in pain once more. Tina's talking, telling him he's okay, that's she's called an ambulance and that Sam's gone to fetch a teacher, she's begging him to open his eyes and tell her what happened. But Blaine doesn't care, he's lost the ability to even be bothered, he's so exhausted he just wants to sleep, he just wants to sleep and forget that things like this ever happen to him. He just wants it to be over now.

**Thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you to everyone for your reviews they mean so much to me so thank you.**

**Part 3**

The ambulance ride to the hospital is terrifying, blaring sirens that reverberate angrily through his broken mind and jolting turns that shudder through his whole body. The lights are bright and the pain is intense and everything is too much, it's daunting and overwhelming and he can barely breathe again, his lungs crackle with every inhale and his body groans with every exhale. Miss Pillsbury had agreed to come to the hospital with him and Tina had insisted on coming in the ambulance too, they're both holding his hands too tightly and wiping hair out of his face and crowding in on him, overbearing and exhausting and so sincerely caring that it makes him want to cry all over again. Paramedics are talking to him and touching him but he can barely hear, his eyes keep going in and out of focus, slipping open and shut, and all the noise, all the colours blur into one frightening presence pressing in on every side, he shrinks up trying to get away from it all but it's in his skin, locked up in his mind and forcing it's way under his blankets, consuming him completely.

He feels a fresh wave of tears prickle in his eyes as Tina tells him that Sam and Finn are following behind, everyone cares about him, really cares and it terrifies him because what's the point? What's the point when he always ends up like this, when he disappoints everyone and hurts the people he loves and he's not worth any of it. They keep telling him it'll be okay, calling him 'sweetheart' and 'honey' and they keep apologising, like it's their fault, like it's anyone but Blaine's fault. He can't bear it, he can't bear the thought that they actually waste time caring about him and worrying about him, it makes him sick. He just wants to be alone, he wants everyone to leave him alone and live their lives happily away while he withers and dies in the empty sheets. He wants his parents to stop pretending they care and his brother to not be tied to a place he hates and he wants Kurt to be happy, honestly that's the only thing Blaine's wanted since the first time he met Kurt and promised himself he would do everything in his power to make the broken boy smile. It's what Kurt deserves after all, he deserves white knights and romance and happiness, he deserves everything that isn't Blaine. Blaine just wants to stop letting other people down, it's why he didn't put up a fight after all. It's why he's letting them win.

He thinks he blacks out for a while, well he must black out because the next thing he knows he's in an uncomfortably stuffy hospital room with itchy blankets and faded yellow walls. He doesn't know whether they gave him something or he passed out on his own, or maybe he was awake all along and he just didn't realise it. But bandages and stitches have appeared on his body, Finn and Miss Pillsbury are standing on either side of his bed while a doctor talks and talks and talks, he can't understand what she's saying but he nods anyway, all the words jumble into one until they're just background noise on a broken radio. Slowly they morph into something more sinister, words that kept him awake for nights on end when he was younger 'fag' and 'freak' and 'die' and crueller words still that he can barely think and let alone say. They come back to haunt him, history repeating itself. The pain is familiar, everywhere hurts but it's not the wild fire he remembers from earlier, the red hot rampage of torn skin and broken bones, it's an ache, it's a bruise encasing his entire body, it's an inability to breathe and an itch to scream and it hurts. God everything just hurts.

But it's nice.

He can deal with pain, it's comforting in a way, it's reliable and it's friendly and it makes him feel welcomed even if he's not exactly wanted. His head's still a little cloudy, he doesn't bother to listen to what people are saying, or look them in the eye. He slips back, back into a place he hasn't been in an awfully long time, his bubble, his cocoon, his safe haven of torment.

He doesn't speak and eventually everyone realises that he isn't going to, the doctor leaves and says she'll check on him later. Miss Pillsbury says that she tried calling his parents and they didn't pick up _ha that's a surprise_ but that she'll try again soon, and Finn says that Burt and Carole are on their way. He doesn't show any sign of understanding them, he stares resolutely at the wall in front of him and keeps his face devoid of emotion.

But inside he wants to scream, he wants to rip and claw and cry because it must be late now, it must be well into the night and a few minutes ago Tina came in and she cried and she told him she was sorry, that she shouldn't have made him come and he'd wanted to explain to her that it wasn't her fault, it was his, that these things happen to him all the time and that he's unsalvageable so it really shouldn't matter anyway. And now Kurt's dad is on his way, as if he hasn't caused that family enough trouble as it is , and he wants to be alone, he wants everyone to get on with their lives and he just wants to stop existing. He wants bad things to stop happening to him.

Burt and Carole arrive, Miss Pillsbury tells him she's going to go home now but she'll keep trying for his parents, she awkwardly pats him on the shoulder and leaves. Carole tells Finn to go home and get some rest too, so he does with a sad look and a 'see you later man'. Tina left hours ago, still crying.

'Oh honey.' Carole sinks into the chair next to his, gripping his hand tight in her own and stoking at his cheek, it's nice. And then he hates himself because they shouldn't need to be here, he shouldn't be enjoying the fact that he's inconveniencing them, they shouldn't even be able to look at him without hating him for what he did to Kurt, he can barely look in the mirror himself.

'Who did this Blaine? You tell me who did this.' Burt's voice is calm and low, his eyes burning with the same passion Blaine's seen a thousand times in Kurt's. He's intimidating, fists clenched, and body trembling with rage, voice solemn and sinister, and not for the first time in Blaine's life he thinks that he wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of Mr Hummel. 'Who did this Blaine?' It's almost a shout and Blaine withdraws at that, curling in on himself and trying to hide the stray tears that have started to run down his face again. There's only a couple but he can feel them everywhere, marking his face and singeing his skin and showing the whole world just how weak he is.

'Leave him be Burt, he can talk to you in the morning.' Carole squeezes his hand and gives him a warm smile. Another tear falls.

'They can't just get away with this.' Burt's pacing, hands clenching and unclenching, his whole body strung up tight like a string about to snap. Blaine tries to blink back tears and ends up letting more fall.

'Stop it look you're scaring him.' He's not. The only person Blaine is afraid of is himself.

'Just tell me Blaine, nobody's going to judge you or think any less of you, just tell me kid and I'll fix, I'll make sure that those… I'll fix this you hear me.' Blaine shakes his head hysterically, trying to throw away the voices and the people and the feelings. He curls up into Carole's side, more because she pulls him to her than anything else, but he presses his head into her chest, shaking it vigorously all the while, and he grips her hand until his knuckles turn white. He hides up against her.

'Look what you've done.' She hisses at Burt, who continues to pace along the sticky white floor. 'It's okay Blaine honey, you don't have to talk right now, you're probably tired. No one's going to hurt you anymore, we're here to help, just go to sleep and we'll sort everything out in the morning.' Gently, she lifts Blaine's head from her shoulder and lays it to rest on the lumpy hospital pillow; she draws his blankets up around him and smooths his hair down as he wordlessly lies back to sleep.

Blaine wakes to the persistent murmuring of familiar voices, they sound worried and strained, forcing themselves to be quiet in the already constricting silence of the room. He keeps his eyes shut and his body still, desperately trying to hide the fact that he's awake. And then he hears it, high and soft and devastatingly beautiful.

'I can't believe I let this happen to him.'

'Kurt, how is this in any way your fault, you weren't even there. The only people to blame are those ignorant-'

'I don't know I should've called him I shouldn't have let him go I should've never let him transfer to McKinley in the first place.'

'This is not your fault. '

'Whose is it then, you don't know, the police don't know, someone has to pay for this someone has to-' Blaine feels the bed sink as Kurt throws himself onto it. He knows from experience that Kurt's fisting his fingers in his hair and covering his face in his hands, sinking down further onto the bed where he probably already knows Blaine isn't asleep.

'This is not your fault and this is not his fault, you're good kids, right now you just need to let him sleep. I'm sure he'll be happy when he wakes up and sees you.'

'Yeah I bet he'll be overjoyed to see the boy who broke up with him in his hospital room.'

'Why did you come then?' The room is quiet for a very long time. Blaine can almost feel the knowing smirk Burt is giving his son, he can definitely feel the sorrowful eyes Kurt is turning on him.

'I'm going to help Carole with the coffee. Maybe he'll talk to you when he wakes up.'

Blaine hears a door open, the sudden whoosh of ringing phones and mundane chatter, and then there's an ominous click and he's swallowed by the vacuum of silence once more. There are a few more minutes of both of them waiting out the other until finally there's a whisper in the air.

'Blaine I know you're awake.' Blaine hides, rolling away and pressing his face into the pillow. He screws his eyes shut and covers his ears like a petulant child in an attempt to block out everything. He feels a hand rest lightly on his shoulder, not pressing him for anything, just waiting. After a while it starts to move slowly, softly, rubbing up and down his arm in a way that he really wishes wasn't comforting.

'I'm sorry.' He whispers, face still pressed almost painfully into the pillow. The words come out as a jumble but he knows Kurt understood, the hand freezes on his forearm and he hears a quiet intake of breath in the uncomfortably silent room.

'Why are you sorry?' It takes him even longer to reply this time, he's trying to regulate his breathing and still his thoughts and stop his eyes from betraying him, in, out, in, out. He scared of what his voice will do when he uses it, he hasn't spoken since the incident, since the only words he could manage were screams and pleads of forgiveness, but when Kurt whispers out a broken 'Blaine.' He takes a deep breath and begins.

'For hurting you. For hurting everyone. Just… I'm sorry, that all I ever do is cause people pain, and I'm sorry that I ruined the dance for Tina and I'm wasting everyone's time. I'm sorry that I hurt you and I'm sorry that you're here and I'm just sorry.' Blaine still doesn't turn round, he can't look at Kurt, he won't look at Kurt, he just stares at the floor and listens to his own jagged breathing.

'Blaine.'

'Don't.' It's surprisingly harsh, it scares Blaine a little, his voice is rough and angry, he feels fire run though his veins and catch in his throat, he wasn't aware he could feel this much anymore. It's terrifying.

'You're not wasting anybody's time. Listen to me, I want to be here for you, and nobody is angry or disappointed with you, they love you and they care about you and I'm so sorry that you think they don't because it's like you can't even see how wonderful you are, how caring and sweet you can be, and how you're always there for everybody. Trust me honey, people want to be here for you.'

'You don't get it, that's the problem they shouldn't. I'm so useless I wish people didn't care about me because then I could just di- then I wouldn't be wasting anybody's time.'

'Don't say that Blaine. Don't you dare say that!' Blaine can't see Kurt but he knows that his eyes are dark, that his lips are set in the same way he's seen Mr Hummel do a thousand times. He can tell that Kurt's teeth are gritted together, and that he's staring at the back of Blaine's head right now, willing him to turn round. But he won't.

'But it's true.'

'Blaine I- the doctors- I have to ask. The doctor's said that there were… cuts… on your arms that couldn't have been from the fight, they said they were deep and Blaine honey I thought you were over this I mean… I'm sorry. I just, I can't imagine what would cause a person to do that, well I can, I've lived it, but it makes me sick that you're going through it, that you couldn't reach out to anyone, that you have to hurt yourself to feel better. I feel like I've failed you, I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you but I'm going to be here for you now and we'll get through this don't worry, It'll be okay I'm so so so sorry. I don't know how to help you but I will. I promise.'

'See, I'm just hurting you and I'm ruining your life and I'm sorry. It's not your fault, you shouldn't be here I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry.' Blaine lets out a sob , quickly burying his face once more in the pillow to hide the one's that will undoubtedly follow. Even so he knows his body is shaking, and his hands are winding together pulling at his skin and tearing at his hair and then all of a sudden they're not. They're wrapped up in soft, warm hands that hold them tight against his chest and he's still crying, he's full on sobbing and his whole body's trembling but Kurt's there, and he thinks Kurt might be crying too which only makes him cry harder but at the same time the other boy is warm and strong and he has his arms around him. Kurt pulls Blaine close and thanks the stars that Blaine goes easily, he wraps his arms around the smaller boy, trapping him with his back flush against Kurt's chest, and he just holds him. He rubs at his arms and he whispers useless words against the back of his neck and he cries, not as violent and despairing as Blaine is, but there are tears all the same and the choking, hopeless feeling of being trapped that he hasn't felt since before he even knew Blaine. It makes him sick to think that Blaine knows the taste of it too. They rock slowly, it's a good twenty minutes until Blaine's sobs turn into despondent kitten mewls and jolting hiccups.

'You are not ruining my life. You are the best that ever happened to me.'

'I'm sorry.'

'You don't have to be anymore.'

Kurt doesn't know what to do and he doesn't know what the future holds, but he knows that right now Blaine needs someone, and he's willing to be that person, he wants to be that person. So they lie close together and they hold hands and they hide in the broken glass and shattered dust of lives that have been torn apart. And they hope, beyond hope, that eventually they can make it out of this alive. Even if they're scarred.

**Thank you all so much for reading, tell me what you think.**


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